Page 35 of Dreamscape Therapies

“Yeah. He’s real eye candy. If I didn’t have Ewan, I would’ve snatched him up myself.”

“Aren’t you seeing him for couples counseling? Maybe crushing on your therapist isn’t such a good idea for your relationship,” I grouch.

"You think he's hot." Eric’s grin grows wider.

"I did not say that."

"You didn't have to."

"Is the therapy helping?" Hale asks, looking genuinely curious.

I nod. "Actually, yeah."

"Really?" Eric's teasing expression softens for a moment.

"Yeah." I glance down at the bar top. "I got the best sleep I've had in months last night."

"That's really good, Vincent," Aksel says, his expression warm.

"Yeah." I rub the back of my neck.

Eric studies me for another second, and then because he's Eric, the sincerity lasts approximately four seconds.

"So when's the wedding?"

"Hades and Persephone."

"Just asking."

"I am not marrying my sleep therapist."

"Not with that attitude."

Across the table, Hale laughs quietly as if he knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of Eric’s blasé attitude toward romance.

I shake my head and disappear into my office.

Chapter Thirteen

I'm standing under a circus tent made entirely of granny squares when a ringmaster announces the first act. A clown on a unicycle made of knitting needles pedals directly toward me, juggling yarn balls that unravel mid-air. I dive out of the way, only to crash into an elephant that's somehow walking on only two legs. It sneezes, and perfect sweaters shoot out like confetti, tangling around my head and shoulders, engulfing me in darkness.

Chapter Fourteen

Jay

I'm already regretting my decision to meet with Shane at the police station. Not because I don't think he can help. Shane is the best detective I know, and if anyone can dig up information without attracting unwanted attention, it's him.

The problem is Shane himself. More specifically, Shane's complete inability to mind his own business.

Every conversation with my adoptive brother eventually turns into an interrogation about my personal life, and right now, my personal life is dangerously close to becoming something I shouldn't be thinking about at all because I can't stop thinking about Vincent.

I shouldn't be this invested; this isn't what good therapists do. I'm supposed to maintain boundaries. I'm supposed to be objective. I'm supposed to help my clients without becoming emotionally tangled up in their lives.

Instead, I'm walking into a police station to ask my detective brother to hunt down a dream weaver because one particular client can't sleep.

Yeah, I'm nailing the whole professional-boundaries thing.

The automatic doors slide open, and I approach the front desk. The officer on duty checks my identification, hands me a guest badge, and points me toward the detective bullpen.